


Smokeless

by Zither



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Speech Disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 10:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12188013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zither/pseuds/Zither
Summary: Hawthorne asks a question. The Dawnblade does her best to answer.





	Smokeless

**Author's Note:**

> Writing D2 fic while less than halfway through the campaign: an excellent lifestyle choice by me!

The question Tal had been dreading did not come when she arrived at the Farm in a shower of transmat energy, falling to one knee before her feet could hit the ground. Hawthorne’s people – mortal humans, all – had gathered round, eyes agog as if she were a mythic beast reduced to crawling right in front of their eyes. None of them had said a word before Hawthorne herself shooed them away. They must have noticed the contrast when she and Dewdrop came back from the Shard, full of a strange, hot, ever-shifting energy that scared her as much as it sustained her. Her Ghost had sung, chattered, even flown down to perch on a surprised refugee’s shoulder; she had simply stood there, smiling a dull scarlet smile she hoped at least some of them would be able to read. Debriefing with Devrim Kay had stirred up the old fear again, but all he’d done was hand her an empty mug and push the still-warm kettle over toward her. That echo of City ritual had set all her lights to blinking. He hadn’t commented on it. As he sipped and she ran an analysis on the vapours, he’d made a few remarks: _I’m running low_ and _My husband would consider a divorce if he knew how long I let this brew, but I like a stronger cup_ and _It’ll start drizzling again soon. Never stops, this time of year._

She had let her guard drop. Enough so that the words, spoken low into her helmet link across a distance of miles, caused her to start:

‘You’re not much of a talker, are you?’ 

Somehow, the lack of malice in Hawthorne’s voice made it sting more. Tal turned over and lay supine in the dirt, gazing up through a tangle of undergrowth. Flowers peeped out from every knot, blue as cut-glass beads in a civilian’s hair. Beyond them, a few splotches of industrial grey were visible. Kay had been right; it would rain later. If she filtered for humidity and temperature, she could pretend it was monsoon season.

She rolled back into prone position in one smooth movement and wriggled forward, heading for a gap between branches. One of the flowers gave a nervous little chirrup, but she waved it off. Everything was fine. Maybe Hawthorne would be content with a non-response. 

Maybe not. ‘Never met a shy Guardian before. I’ve seen a few who were too high-and-mighty to mingle with the common folk, but you don’t strike me as the type.’ 

‘There are plenty of shy Guardians,’ Dewdrop said, emerging from the leaves in a blaze of righteous fury, ‘and it’s none of your business!’ 

 _No,_ Tal thought, and punctuated it with a cross little flare she knew Dewdrop would pick up on. She didn’t want to pick a fight with Suraya Hawthorne. She wanted to be the sort of person who could catch Suraya Hawthorne’s jibes and toss them back at her with a brilliant laugh, plan strategies with her over a campfire, debate her on the merits of the City without caring who won. She didn’t want anyone to speak on her behalf to this Lightless, intriguing stranger, not even somebody who knew her better than she knew herself.

‘Okay, sure.’ Tal had braced herself to hear Hawthorne snarl back, but her tone was more bemused than angry. ‘If you don’t want to, or you can’t… I was just thinking, you’re on last-name terms with me and I’ve been calling you ‘Guardian’ all this time. Forget it.’

The aperture was broader than it had seemed at first, offering a good view of the open land beneath the cliff. Two Ransack Vandals squatted there, not living up to either one of their designations; it looked almost like they were in the middle of a tea ceremony. Watching them, Tal gave in to a very bad idea.

‘I can-‘ Two clear words, but she could feel it building on the next. _Don’t force it,_ Kir said, a voice of reason at the back of her mind. She pushed away all thoughts of her mentor, of what might have happened at Felwinter Peak, and forced it. ‘Talk-talk-alk-t-t-t- _talk-ACK-‘_ The final attempt came out as an appalling mechanical screech, like a rusty hinge grinding shut; she could only imagine what it must have been like on Hawthorne’s end. When her voicebox cut to static, it was a mercy.

The earth crumbled underneath Tal as she rose into a crouch. She wondered how long it would take her to dig a hole and bury herself. Perhaps the cool weight of loam would quench that fire inside her, burning bright and unendurable. She had always sung to the spaces between stars, never the stars themselves. The Shard had neglected to take personal preference into account.

‘It’s not funny,’ Dewdrop snapped. For a moment, Tal thought the rebuke was directed at her.

‘Did I laugh?’ Hawthorne sounded just as defensive, and yet there was something else behind her words. Embarrassment, Tal realised. It hadn’t occurred to her that Hawthorne might feel as uncomfortable as she did. ‘Look, Guardian… I meant what I said. You do solid work. Don’t let anyone give you trouble, least of all me.’

Huffy silence from Dewdrop. Tal prodded the tip of a spine, hard. _Tell her._  

‘Vocal feedback,’ said Dewdrop, not troubling to conceal her reluctance. ‘That’s what someone we knew said it was called. Of course, he couldn’t remember which planet the comrade of his who had it served on, so I can’t say how accurate that is.’

 _Knew._ The past tense brought Tal up short. She almost missed Hawthorne’s tentative: ‘Even before your City fell…?’ 

‘She’s been like this ever since I found her,’ Dewdrop said, with finality. 

Blessed quiet, then, or at least freedom from listening to voices she could understand. Birds sang overhead, bugs scuttled through the soil, and the Fallen below barked at each other in rising tones. It was tempting to classify the exchange as an argument, but she would not fall into the trap of applying assumptions about organic speech and body language to beings from beyond her own solar system. One of them gesticulated with all four arms, sending a storm surge of ripples through its deep purple cloak. House of Dusk. A little too straightforward, that. Not much fodder there for passionate debates on cultural accuracy versus poetic resonance in translation, as had been the case with Devils and Wolves and Kings… and just like that, she was back in the archives, charting a curve of temporal disturbances across the surface of Venus. She had dreaded each and every one of those return trips – a twinge of guilt followed that acknowledgement, as if she’d spoken ill of the dead – but the Tower’s resources were unmatched. How many of those resources had been preserved in backup form?

All of a sudden, she was glad Hawthorne couldn’t read her mind. She’d stumbled out of disaster through flames, over rubble, around broken things lying in the dirt, and her greatest pang of sorrow in the aftermath was for _data?_ Banishing the thought, she spread her fingers wide in angry reflex. Why her? Why, over others more deserving, had she been given this second chance at a second life? Full of a fire she feared in a way that went above and beyond her usual cowardice…

 _Look!_ Dewdrop tugged at her, urgent. Not far from her hand, a cluster of twigs had started to smoke and blacken. She snuffed them out with her glove, then worked on smothering the stray sparks within. _Thoughts are not actions. Feelings are not a direct conduit._ Chanting those truisms inside her head helped calm her. The Fallen, sensing danger on a level they themselves might not have been able to articulate, were heading west. If she requested a scout rifle, they would be well within range. She did not. The nest of twigs was charred and spidery, cramping up around a couple of flowers at its centre.  

She wished Hawthorne would speak again. 

 _Go slow,_ Kir entreated her. _Take it syllable by syllable._ Keeping her mentor’s advice at the forefront of her mind, she handled the word as if it were a priceless storage unit. ‘Tal.’

Some distortion, but nowhere near the level of her last try. After an extended pause, Dewdrop clarified: ‘It’s her name. Tal-16.’ She waited for Hawthorne’s reaction to the number – a whistle, or a sharp, pitying intake of breath. None came.

‘Pleasure picking up the pieces with you, Tal-16,’ Hawthorne said, at last. Her voice was unreadable. ‘We got a clear landing zone there? How do you feel about bringing a few survivors home today?’

‘Good,’ Tal said, in a voice that crackled and spat like wildfire. There was no way Hawthorne would be able to understand her, but she carried on speaking nonetheless. ‘I feel good.’


End file.
